Page 77 of Hate It with You

Alex whips around to face me, abandoning the pans to meet me where I stand on the other side of the kitchen island. He says nothing as he pulls me in for a hug, wrapping his arms around my shoulders, holding me to his chest.

Tears take hold of my eyes as he squeezes me, his grip never faltering. Wrapping my arms around his waist, I do the same, my fists gripping his shirt for support. After a few moments, he loosens his grip, pulling back only enough to allow me to look up at him.

“Hope you’re hungry,” he says with a smirk.

I smile at his casual tone, at how beautiful his face looks in the morning, glasses placed delicately on the bridge of his nose. He must’ve grabbed them when he grabbed the pans and the food.

I nod my head, my chest aching when he releases me from his hold and goes back to the pans, flipping each of the items as they continue to cook.

I take a seat at the bar. The stool cools me, but my heart warms as I watch Alex. I was afraid to come out here, to face him after the events of last night. Afraid he’d push me into talking. Yet he says nothing as he continues to cook us breakfast.

The morning sun lights up the kitchen, Alex having pulled back the sheer curtains from my windows. He looks freshly rested after a night's sleep, ready for the day.

I kick myself for running from this moment over the past year.

Alex brings the pans to two plates on the counter as he dishes up our food. He glances at me a few times as he does so, and the sun catches in the blue of his eyes, forcing me to look away when the feeling in my chest becomes too much at the sight.

It isn’t until I look at the plate of food that I catch sight of his hands. The bandages now removed, a pit forms in my stomach as I take in the rough state of his knuckles.

I’m by his side in seconds as he puts the last empty pan back on the stove. His eyes go wide when he turns to find me standing so close to him. Slowly, carefully, I take his hands in mine.

His knuckles are a mix of reds, blues, and purples. The scrapes on them look like they are moments from ripping open and bleeding again. Some of the scrapes are tearing through the tattoo on his left hand, one of the mourning dove’s wings torn apart at the edges. His fingers twitch when I run my thumb along the back of his hands.

The words come out in a sob. “I never wanted you to get hurt. I was trying to protect you. I⁠—”

He removes one of his hands from mine, placing it on my cheek to lift my face up to his. He wipes away one of my tears. “When are you going to understand that I’m the one who wants to protect you?” He leans down, planting a kiss on my forehead. “I’m alright. Just let me care for you.”

“What if he comes back?” The events of last night still loom over me, as fear takes over. The possibility of Alex getting hurt again isn’t something I can handle.

Alex takes my hand in his, carefully guiding me toward the stools at the kitchen island. I wipe away my remaining tears as we take a seat. He grabs both plates, placing each one of them in front of us. A couple of glasses with water are already on the counter.

Taking my hand in his again, he turns on his stool to face me. “He is never coming back. I can assure you of that. Roman and Graham took care of him.” He looks toward the floor, his jaw ticking as he says the last sentence. As though he wishes he could’ve done more.

Though I saw what Frank looked like. One more punch from Alex and he would’ve been dead.

“Thank you for not killing him,” I say, unsure of what else to respond with.

He nods before continuing, “They dropped him at the police station. Roman didn’t leave until he confirmed that Frank would be locked up. Even gave them a USB of the video footage so they’d have all the evidence they needed to charge him with attempted murder.”

“But what about you? The cameras were still up when you came in.” I can only assume, given the fact that I was barely holding my shit together in the storage room.

“We cut the feeds before I even got through the doors. Frank is the only one getting arrested. And it sounds like this time, it’ll be for good.” He squeezes my hand, an added reassurance that I have nothing to worry about.

Although it might take me a while to adjust to that concept.

“Let’s eat,” he says as he turns toward his plate, grabbing a slice of bacon and ripping off a piece with his teeth.

Taking my fork, I go to dig into the eggs but stop myself, pushing around my food until I can work up the courage to say what needs to be said.

“I never knew my real father. He left when I was a baby.” Alex stops chewing, his movements coming to a still as he listens. “My mom married Frank when I was three. They had Benny four months later.”

I take a deep breath as I prepare to continue, not having told anyone this story since prom night, six years ago when Sienna and I were already halfway through our tubs of ice cream.

“The beatings didn’t start until I was eight. It started small: an extra-hard grip on the arm, and a smack on the shoulder with a little too much force. But then he started cutting me out of photos, yelling at me when Benny did something wrong. My mom was a nurse. She worked long hours, so by the time she came home, she was too tired to care what was happening.”

“Did he ever…?” He trails off, hesitant to ask the question.

“No.” I’m quick to respond. “It was never like that.” I’m surprised when my eyes stay dry as I recount the events of my childhood for the first time in years. “He hated the fact that my mom had a child with another man. That I wasn’t as perfect as Benny, that I wasn’t his blood. Things only got really bad when he lost his job, and he thought he could find another one at the bottom of a bottle of whiskey.”